


New Dreamer

by pt_tucker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Big Brother Mycroft, Dark Thoughts, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Other, POV Mycroft Holmes, Self-Sacrifice, Sounding, Tentacle Monsters, Tentacles, guilty mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 10:38:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5740543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pt_tucker/pseuds/pt_tucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft hadn’t believed Sherlock when he’d told him, but he did now. And now he was going to do something about it. No matter the cost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Dreamer

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Waking Nightmare](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5490563) by [Anarfea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/pseuds/Anarfea). 



> **Warning:** I wasn't certain how to tag this, so I'll just clarify here. This fic has some dark thoughts (brought about by severe guilt) in which Mycroft thinks he deserves to be raped. Proceed with caution if that's something triggering for you.
> 
> Unbeta'd, though I did go through it several times. But feel free to point out any mistakes you see.
> 
> Also, this fic takes place after Anarfea's [Waking Nightmare](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5490563), which takes place after s0mmerspr0ssen's [Night Terror](http://archiveofourown.org/works/245512). Basically a fanfic of a fanfic of a fanfic. It's really just tentacle porn so you shouldn't specifically need to read the previous ones, but I recommend you do if for no other reason than they're very good.

Seven thousand, two hundred and thirty five. 

A distracting number of enemies.

An unfortunate number of casualties. 

A _nightmarish_ number of-

Mycroft rested his mouth against the back of his fingers. 

Seven thousand, two hundred and thirty five. 

He inhaled a deep breath and let it out with a forced steadiness that belied how very close Mycroft was to purging what little he’d eaten in the past few hours from his stomach. Again. His employees were starting to look concerned. Couldn’t have the Ice Man breaking down in the middle of a highly classified government research facility filled with enough experimental weapons to wipe out half the population of England within a single night, now could they?

“Sir.”

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder to find Anthea fidgeting with her phone and refusing to look him in the eye. It was uncharacteristic of her, but he supposed he’d hardly been himself of late either. Not since Sherlock had told him about- Well, not since John had forced him to believe Sherlock, at any rate. 

Seven thousand, two hundred and thirty five. 

Every night since his brother had turned eighteen, save the pitiful amount of days in which Sherlock’s drug usage had held the creature at bay. Save the days Sherlock had _refused_ to sleep until his body shut down and forced him to accept biology. 

If Mycroft had been a different sort of man, he might have wallowed in the should haves and would haves and might have beens. As it was, the nature of his occupation had taught him long ago that such thoughts were only useful in so far as you could learn from them. Seeing how Mycroft had no other younger siblings who might one day come to him with tales of monsters rising up from their beds to violate them, the learning experience was somewhat lacking.

So, he merely accepted his part in his brother’s ongoing torture and used the biting guilt he’d felt every waking moment for the past twenty-seven days as fuel for what needed to be done.

“Sir,” Anthea said again. 

“It’s started?” Mycroft asked, his voice barely above a whisper, but loud enough in the empty backroom that he’d commandeered for himself. They’d have given him an office if he’d asked, but that would have made this all feel far too much like any number of other experiments he’d taken a personal interest in over the years. His brother’s predicament wasn’t something to be _studied_.

“Yes, sir.”

Mycroft took one last deep breath before rising to follow her. 

They walked through wide empty hallways filled with bright white light that reflected off the equally bright white walls. It was quiet; Mycroft had ordered all of the non-essential personnel to leave this area of the building. His brother didn’t need scientists continuously gawking at him when their efforts had yet to uncover a single fact beyond what Sherlock had already told them.

Slipping into the observation room, Mycroft peered through the supposedly penetration-proof window. Whether or not it’d actually prevent the creature from attacking them if it so chose was yet to be seen. One of the tentacles shifted in Mycroft’s direction to give him a lazy wave before gliding between Sherlock’s legs and entering his anus with a move well-practiced. 

Mycroft pursed his lips. They still had no idea if the creature could perceive things like emotions, but he wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of a response nonetheless. Perhaps the creature didn’t perceive anything at all, but instead drew its knowledge from Sherlock himself. Who could say? They weren’t any closer to understanding his brother’s connection to the creature than they’d been a month ago.

Sherlock had glanced over when Mycroft had entered the observation room, and now the two of them held each other’s gaze. Mycroft was the first to turn away when one of the hands came up from the bed to wrap around Sherlock’s throat. It didn’t hurt Sherlock. It _hadn’t_ hurt Sherlock. Not since that first night when Mycroft had ignored it’s “rules” and sent people in to deal with it. 

Well, attempt to deal with it. The night had ended rather violently for his brother – the creature brutalizing him over and over with roughness outside the normal range Mycroft had later observed. Neither he nor Sherlock had been able to sleep that night, though Mycroft had spent his time shaking in a corner of the restroom, only rising occasionally to relieve his stomach of its contents. Anthea, blessedly, had taken the liberty to have John tranquilized after he’d started panicking. 

Mycroft had listened to Sherlock after that.

He rubbed at his temples and tried to push the memories away. When this was over, he’d lock them in a cupboard of his own Mind Palace, right next to the cupboard labelled “overdose”. For now, he had more important things that required his focus.

His brother had thankfully turned his gaze away from the window and so Mycroft wasn’t forced to avoid it while he watched the two new hands that had appeared from nowhere tease Sherlock’s nipples. A wet tentacle lazily trailed lubrication across his brother’s lower abdomen, ready to grasp his cock when it felt the time was right. Despite its reluctant loss of John, the creature had settled back into the routine of _enjoying_ Sherlock by himself with surprising ease. 

Mycroft looked away again. “Do it,” he ordered. 

There was a moment of silence while Anthea typed his command into the computer. A red light came on inside the observation room, indicating the gas – unseen and unscented – had been released into the other one. Mycroft monitored his brother out of the corner of his eye, his attention otherwise focused on his umbrella. He was too weak to bear watching the creature’s rage a second time if things went poorly.

Sherlock’s eyes drooped as the drug spread through his system, and though the tentacles trapping his arms and legs didn’t allow him to move, Mycroft could see his body relax in the makeshift restraints. The horrible gasps and moans the creature had forced from his brother grew quiet until Sherlock was completely unconscious. 

The creature didn’t appear bothered by Sherlock’s lack of response. It pulled out of Sherlock long enough to point at Mycroft knowingly before plunging back into his brother’s arse. Mycroft winced, though this was a good sign. If the creature had enough intelligence to establish rules without words, to direct John and Sherlock in sexual sessions, to openly mock Mycroft’s attempts to help his brother…well, this just might work. 

Mycroft glanced over at Anthea. She nodded to show him that the room had been cleared of the gas. “That will be all for tonight,” he said, and she left him alone without commenting on what she had to know he was going to do. 

Taking a deep breath, he unlocked the door and stepped into the presence of the creature for the first time.

“You’re obviously an intelligent being,” Mycroft said, keeping his voice calm though his heart felt as if it was about to give out at any moment. “I was wondering if we couldn’t come to some sort of arrangement.”

==================================================================

Mycroft’s eyes slipped closed as he leaned back into his bedroom door. Deep breaths. Just deep breaths. He opened them to find nothing out of the ordinary – his bedroom, immaculate, his bed, ready for sleep…and other activities.

Pushing off the door, Mycroft set about preparing for the four minutes and thirty seconds of respite he’d receive before the creature found its way to its new nighttime companion. Outwardly he was calm. His tie came off with no more or no less speed than any other night, followed by his suit jacket and waistcoat. He hung them in the side closet – the one for clothing that needed to be cleaned – and dropped down to untie his shoelaces. 

Eventually he was left with nothing else to remove, and he stood by his small laundry closet naked, save the uncertainty strewn across his body. Mycroft ran his boxers through his hands once, twice, and then enough times that he had to admit he was stalling and not actually deciding whether or not to wear the navy blue or the hunter green pyjama bottoms. He tossed the underwear into the hamper inside the closet and closed the door, not bothering to open the walk-in one beside it. It was only logical to sleep in the nude.

Mycroft flicked off the lights and padded his way across the room in the dark. While they’d left the lights on for Sherlock at the facility – his brother had wanted people (Mycroft) to _see_ it more than he’d wanted not to see it himself – Mycroft had to agree with Sherlock’s initial assessment. The creature was a terrifying sight to behold and not something he personally wanted to stare at night after night.

Mycroft settled himself on top of the blankets. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he began a countdown. Always four minutes and thirty seconds. Not much time to prepare for what was to come, though Mycroft certainly had more preparation time than his brother had received.  
That first night, when Sherlock had turned eighteen…how terrifying it must have been.

And then all of the nights afterwards.

Seven thousand, two hundred and thirty _six._

All but the first were Mycroft’s fault. 

Sherlock had called in the middle of the night. And though Mycroft had liked to pretend since then that he hadn’t, he had been able to hear the tears his little brother had been refusing to shed. He’d told Sherlock to visit the hospital if whatever he’d taken hadn’t worn off in a few hours, and had scolded him for putting such disgusting chemicals into his body. He’d hung up then, annoyed that his brother had interrupted his sleep when he’d been set to speak with the head of MI6 the next morning.

Mycroft cleared his mind of the memory, carefully pushing the guilt to the side where it would lay in wait until a more opportune time presented itself. Perhaps tomorrow he would mentally write “time to wallow in self-inflicted anguish and damnation” on his schedule to give it a chance to properly permeate his thoughts without interrupting the rest of his day. As it was, his actions were set to be punished in a few short minutes.

There had been seven thousand, two hundred and thirty six, but there would not be seven thousand, two hundred and thirty seven. 

Mycroft had barely drifted off to sleep when his four minutes and thirty seconds came due. Fingers - long, inhuman fingers - snaked up between his legs and curled around his inner thighs. The two hands drew outwards, forcing Mycroft’s legs wider. He clutched the blankets on either side of his hips and pressed his lips together until they ached. 

His attempts to remain still became unnecessary when two tendrils broke the surface of the bed to secure his biceps, followed by two more taking hold of his wrists. Mycroft squeezed the blankets even harder. Only appreciative noises were permitted, and then only when _it_ wanted them. Fighting was _never_ allowed. He wouldn’t shout or struggle or do anything that might anger the creature. He’d just hold onto his blankets and try very hard not to think about what was happening.

As if reading Mycroft’s thoughts – and maybe it could – a tendril slipped up from between his spread thighs to swirl around his soft cock. It was at least twice the length of said cock and thin like a pencil. Mycroft couldn’t _help_ but think about what was happening. 

The creature was careful not to yank on his penis when a fat tentacle pressed up against Mycroft’s lower back, forcing his bottom half into the air. The vine-like tendril merely grew with his increased height before pulling down his foreskin to reveal his glans. 

The simple action exposed Mycroft in a way he hadn’t been before and he had to press his head back into his pillow to stop himself from struggling. There was a _reason_ the creature knew exactly where and how to touch. Countless individuals throughout history had reported incidents strikingly similar to Sherlock’s encounters. Though his employees were still trying to trace its origins, to separate fact from fiction, and to pin down whether it was indeed an _it_ or a group of monsters, all of the stories had had one thing in common. Everyone who’d spoken of their ordeals had been ignored like Sherlock, by people like Mycroft. 

He wouldn’t shout and he wouldn’t struggle. He’d bargained for this. He deserved all of it.

The creature seemed determined to make a liar out of Mycroft as it did something they’d never seen while studying its interactions with Sherlock. The tendril around his cock smothered his head with the secretions it produced, while at the same time sliding its grip up and down until Mycroft was partially erect. Then tip of the tendril rubbed against Mycroft’s urethra opening, dribbling its lubricant down his length each time it passed over the slit.

Mycroft bit his lip in time to stop the startled “no” that tried to escape, though he had no control over the full-bodied withdrawal that had him unintentionally shying away from the tendril between his legs.

The creature attacked. The tentacles around his arms tightened while the one under his lower back curled around to secure his waist. The hands between his thighs were joined by tentacles at his knees and ankles. It was a hold that protected him as much as it indicated which of them was in charge. That supposed concern for its plaything’s safety was what propelled the feelings he’d been trying to ignore to the forefront of his mind.

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut as the tendril slipped into his cock. Only a few tears escaped.

He sucked in air through his teeth as it slithered down. Centimeter by centimeter, he could feel it pierce him in a way that it had never pierced Sherlock, and perhaps there was some justice in that. It was _awful._ Mycroft had experimented before, but this was something that had never interested him, and for good reason it would seem. It was beyond uncomfortable, and it burned in a way that wasn’t actually burning as Mycroft’s brain adjusted to the unknown sensation. 

The creature was patient. The tentacle waited for his urethra to adjust to each new creep downwards before continuing on with its violation. Where its final destination lay, only it knew. If it knew. While obviously practiced, it could have been mindlessly exploring for all that Mycroft understood its motivations. 

Mycroft’s fingers ached, but he didn’t dare let go of the blanket. He had the oddest feeling that if he did, he’d go floating off and be unable to find his way back. 

Eventually the tendril found a place inside Mycroft that put up more of a resistance than previously, and for one moment Mycroft’s heart was beating a thousand RPM as he waited for it to breach his bladder. It didn’t. Mycroft sagged as the tendril retreated, slithering its way out of his urethra in a fashion that was barely less horrible than how it’d entered. 

His cock was granted a blissful twenty-seven seconds of emptiness while the oozy tip of the tendril rubbed at his slit, almost as if in approval. Like a man patting his well-trained pet. And then it dove back in, forcing a cry out of Mycroft and another smattering of escaped tears from his still-closed eyes. 

It fucked him like that. In and out. Up and down. Sometimes giving and taking only a few centimeters, sometimes pulling out completely to circle Mycroft’s tip soothingly. It touched him in a way that he might have found interesting if the touch had come from a desired partner and not from this monster from another world. And that was terrible, the discomfort bordering on pain bordering on something he couldn’t fully describe, but not the worst of it. 

No, the worst was when it slid half itself down into him and then glided the other half along the outside of his cock. The tiny tendril pulled his foreskin up until it touched the part that had disappeared inside him and then back down as far as nature would allow. Slowly, Mycroft’s soft erection hardened. He turned his head into his pillow and willed his emotionless mask back into place. 

He blinked back more tears. Sherlock had endured this for _years_. Mycroft wasn’t so weak as to openly sob when his brother had lost that ability long ago.

Once it had set up a proper rhythm with Mycroft’s cock - slow but too fast, gentle but too painful, considerate but too demanding – a new threat emerged from whatever otherworldly dimension the creature resided. Mycroft’s heart fell as the tendril poked at his anus. Some willfully ignorant part of him had hoped it’d be satisfied with only the one violation.

The tendril took his arse with far less care than it’d taken his cock, swirling around the outside only enough to spread the secretion before plunging into his body. It couldn’t have been a particularly large tendril – less than two fingers, surely – but Mycroft couldn’t stop the cry he released as what _felt_ like a fist-sized monster forced its way past his sphincter. With its other tentacles already holding him in a bruising grip, it couldn’t squeeze him tighter, as it’d done with Sherlock those times in observation. Instead it chose to mark its displeasure with Mycroft’s protest by wrapping a thin, rope-like tentacle around his neck. 

The resulting moan couldn’t have been more false, but it covered up the whimper that would have escaped in its place well enough.

Mycroft wasn’t given time to adjust as it fucked his arse in opposite time with his cock. When the one hit the space inside him right before his bladder, the other was pulling out and when the tiny tentacle was pulling out, the larger one was shoving against his prostate. Mycroft regretted the darkness then. It was difficult to focus between the two sensations and when a new pair of hands slipped around his sides to toy with his nipples, he all but spun in the black room. The hands pinched and pulled them, one after the other, so that they darted messages of pain to his brain that mingled with the burning discomfort of his cock and warred with the unbearable jolts of pleasure sent in by his prostate. The building need to come lorded over them all.

He shivered and this time the moan wasn’t fake. Oh heavens. Oh bloody hell. He _needed_ to- Mycroft shook his head. He wouldn’t.

The creature apparently decided that, yes, he _would._ The part of the tendril wrapped around the outside of his cock glided along its own disgusting lubrication as it slithered up and down. Mycroft whimpered. He tried to close his legs, but the creature them firmly apart. He tried to wriggle but the tendrils securing him were like granite. When he tried to beg, the tendril around his throat tightened in warning. 

His entire body trembled as the creature refused to grant him mercy. Mycroft’s world narrowed down to what he was feeling, all other thoughts fleeing from his mind as his body told him that he was far too close to the edge. In that moment he’d have given anything to make it _stop_ and it was _awful_ and he _hated_ it but he _needed_ to-

Mycroft barely had enough presence of mind to feel the tendril rush out of his cock before he was spurting semen in its wake. He pressed up against the tendrils holding him down as his body tried to do _something_ about the unusually intense sensation. His hazy thoughts swirled around until he realized that the cock-fucking had made this feel so much worse than normal and it was horrendously terrible in a way that he never wanted to stop. The tendril inside him continued to milk his prostate while the tiny one tortured him with his own post-orgasm sensitivity and everything felt so _good_ that he wanted to die.

And then it was over.

The tendrils around his legs faded away, followed by the ones on his arms. The hands disappeared next. The tendril around his cock gave him one last pump before it too wandered off into the nether. All that was left was the one around his throat and the one in his arse, the latter of which seemed content to stay with him for the rest of the night, resting in what an hour ago Mycroft would have considered his most intimate of places. The creature had shown him that wasn’t true.

Fear gripped him. The negotiations had gone exceedingly well, as could be seen by the very fact that his brother was finally safe from the torment Mycroft should have rescued him from almost two decades ago. But he’d been speaking with a being they could hardly believe, let alone understand, and if he’d made some misstep…Had he, somewhere in his promise not to elude sleep - to instead _give_ it extra opportunities to visit during the day – somehow implied that it could stay with him even after it had finished– After it had finished?

Terror spread through his thoughts until it was all that occupied his mind and, in a moment of irrationality, he tried to run from the bed. Tried to _get away_. The tentacle around his throat yanked him back to the mattress before he’d risen ten centimeters, and then he couldn’t _breathe._ The one in his anus resumed its previous actions, now with thrusts that could only be described as brutal. It pounded into him, hitting his prostate with a force that made him jump with each contact. Meanwhile, the other tendril continued to strangle him. The room was too dark to gauge whether or not his vision was blackening, but his head was certainly becoming woozy.

And then the one between his legs jerked out of him, leaving behind sticky secretion and a sore arsehole as a reminder. The one around his neck followed, though not before sliding along Mycroft’s lips. Like a farewell kiss. He sucked in greedy gulps of air. 

The ice cracked, or maybe melted. What had he gotten himself into? The childish part of him recommended he burrow under his blankets, and he did. He secured them so that they were tight against his body and pulled his pillow underneath their safety. He put it over his head for good measure, and then curled into a ball. 

As if it would do him any good. 

The thought that it could come again, and that any barrier he erected would be futile, was enough to have him hyperventilating. He blindly reached out into the darkness and opened the drawer of his nightstand. Mycroft fumbled until he found the paper bag he’d placed inside it earlier, after he’d mentally shifted through all of his possible reactions to¬–

He breathed into the bag. 

He couldn’t afford to call for medical attention. Now that the creature’s existence was known, Mycroft Holmes suddenly having a panic attack on the same night it’d mysteriously disappeared from Sherlock’s life would draw attention. The bruising on his body would draw even more.

He’d promised the creature he’d stop the research into its existence, and he couldn’t bear what might happen if he broke their agreement. Mycroft doubted the creature would be receptive to his explanations of outside interference. 

Mycroft wouldn’t allow this to happen to Sherlock. Not again. Not _ever_ again. Tomorrow he’d issue a standing kill order to his most trusted employees – in the event that his death came before Sherlock’s. 

He buried his face into his sheets once his breathing had calmed. The air was warm and stuffy underneath both the blanket and the pillow, but he couldn’t find it in him to pull them down even a centimeter. The bag crunched in his hand as he hugged it to his chest. 

Sleep didn’t come.

Hours had passed by the time his personal mobile chirped. Text message from Sherlock, John, or Anthea. No one else had the number. He curled around his bag like a child curled around their favorite stuffed animal. 

It took five minutes for Mycroft to convince himself that he really did need to see what the text said. If the creature had gone back to Sherlock anyway…He snuck his hand out of the blanket and grasped for his mobile. His heartbeat increased with each second his skin was in contact with the open air, Mycroft’s fear telling him that at any second the creature would reappear to grab it. He almost dropped his mobile when he found it, so shaky was his hand. Mycroft snatched the device into his fort. 

_What did you do? – SH_

His eyes closed as relief washed over him.

_It’s 2 AM, brother dear. Be more specific. – MH_

_Neither of us are stupid enough for that game. – SH_

Mycroft winced. The universe would have to be lazy indeed to have both Mycroft and the creature disappear on the same night. As much as it’d pained him, he’d been at the lab for every one of his brother’s violations. Watching had been less than what Mycroft deserved. And then after he’d stayed with Sherlock, guarding over his exhausted sleep in an attempt to pretend he was doing something helpful.

_I assure you brother mine, despite rumors to the contrary, I am not omniscient. - MH_

It was a full minute before Sherlock responded.

_You’ve called me brother twice in the span of two sentences. – SH_

_As I said, it’s 2 AM. – MH_

The mobile was silent for longer this time, long enough for Mycroft to hope that he’d dropped it in favor of celebrating his newfound freedom. Mycroft had just curled the mobile up next to his bag when it chirped again.

_Mycroft. What did you do? – SH_

This time it was Mycroft who hesitated. He could _hear_ the shift in Sherlock’s tone. He’d intended for his brother to be oblivious to his interference; the risk of Sherlock feeling guilty for something which only Mycroft should feel guilt was too high. His brother may deny it until the end of his days, but Mycroft had never doubted Sherlock cared for him. Unfortunately, there was little to alleviate Sherlock’s suspicions once he’d grasped onto them. Mycroft would have to go to him if he wanted to prove he’d had nothing to do with the creature’s sudden disappearance.

His fingers trailed across his sheets. 

Rule Number Three: Don’t leave when it’s over. Unless you want another turn.

And that was without adding in Mycroft’s newfound terror of the open darkness, or his aching limbs, sore throat and burning openings. 

Mycroft’s hands trembled as he typed up his response.

_My people have informed me of what happened. I’ll be at the lab within the hour. – MH_

**Author's Note:**

> LMK what you thought! Comments and kudos are much appreciated!


End file.
